Not faith exactly. Something older -
the body standing up when the bells go,
the way a horse turns toward a gate.
I do not go in. I stand across the street
with a coffee, doing what my grandmother did
in a different country with a different coat.
Call it inheritance. Call it a habit
wearing the clothes of a belief.
Either way, at ten, I stop.
This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
